


Fifty Quid

by WriterX



Series: Punk!locked Uni [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bets, Crossdressing, Fights, Fist Fights, Flirting, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Makeup, Piercings, Punk!lock, Rugby Players, Sexual Fantasy, Tatto Artist, Tattoos, Uni!lock, Whovians, tattoo shop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterX/pseuds/WriterX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is relatively well known for being able to snag a kiss from anyone he pleases, and in his third year of University, his friend Mike Stamford bets John fifty quid that he can't get Sherlock Holmes to kiss him. Sherlock Holmes - the new freshman taking the University by storm; who sports alluring piercings, dark tattoos, and a condescending attitude. A man who refuses to do any sort of kiss and tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fifty Quid

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the Punk!lock contest hosted by fuckyeahteenlock.tumblr. I did a bunch of research on the tattooing process, which I sadly didn't get to use much of, but it was fun to learn. George Bone Tattoos is a real tattoo shop in London, and obviously Sherlock doesn't work there because this is a piece of fiction. Also, as I do not live in London, nor even in the UK, I got information on the shop off pictures on George Bone's website, so I hope the location is well enough portrayed. If anyone who has been to the shop happens to read this, mind telling me if I did okay?  
> Other than that, I just want to thank the lovely leeyumtomlinson.tumblr for doing a Beta on this work, and for sherjohnlocked.tumblr for telling me about their tattoo experience.  
> I don't own any of the characters, I just enjoy manipulating their lives! Enjoy! :)

             _“I bet you fifty quid that you can’t get Sherlock Holmes to kiss you.”_

            Mike’s words swim around in the recess of John’s head as the cab finally pulls up to its destination. After sitting for nearly forty minutes in the back of a cab that smelt disgustingly of rotten cabbages, and paying a cab fee that was much too high for his meager pocket change, John is starting to have second thoughts about this whole endeavor.

            One week ago, his friend Mike Stamford had come up to him after John had just endured a grueling class of watching the autopsy of a dead man. Mike had declared his proposition with a huff of breath and a twinkling in his eyes that suggested an ulterior motive. At first, John had just laughed.

 _“Are you serious?” He’d said to his friend_ – and one really shouldn’t ask questions one doesn’t wish to know the answer to. Mike had been in study hall with the infamous character, and had witnessed a shy, mousy haired freshman attempt to ask Holmes for a date. When the inquirer had been met with a startling observation about the asker in question and an amusing retort, Mike had instantly wondered if Three Continents Watson could get an alternative response.

_“You do know who Sherlock Holmes is, right?” Mike had smirked at John’s disbelieving face, fully knowing the answer to his question._

Of course John knew who Sherlock Holmes was. The nineteen year old had started up the rumor mill at the University like John had never seen in the past three years he’d been attending the school. Since John is in his third year, and the Holmes boy is in his first, the two don’t interact at all – which was cause for Mike’s teasing words. John’s lack of interaction with the boy was only partly the reason for his surprise though.

The rest of the cause of his bewilderment would be a result of the rumors that circulate themselves around the freshman. Of course, you had to take them with a grain of salt – such things do tend to get blown out of proportion fairly easily.

But over the past four months, John has heard stories like: Sherlock Holmes can tell whom you’re sleeping with just by looking at you.

Or: Sherlock Holmes forced a teacher to retire by revealing a two-year affair with a student.

Or: Sherlock Holmes made someone turn to stone by looking too coldly into their eyes.

And those don’t even begin to scratch at the surface of the depths of tales about the boy. Especially those in relation to Sherlock’s appearance. John hadn’t understood those – until he had walked by the bloke a few weeks previous.

John remembers the moment with crystal sharp clarity. He’d been trapped in the flow of students in a busy hallway, his ears filled with meaningless chatter as he tried to trudge his way forward, two minutes before his next class started. He’d had his books gripped close to his chest, feeling like just another nameless face in the crowd, when Sherlock Holmes had walked by.

John had known instantly the man was Sherlock Holmes. With the power and confidence in that walk, how could it not be? Sherlock was striding down halls in the direction that John was leaving, and the blonde had less than fifteen seconds to let his eyes flicker over the epitome of strangeness.

Straightened shoulders, head held high, narrowed waist, eyes fixed on his destination. He had wild, curly black hair, and skin that was the pale colour of someone who spent the majority of their time indoors. A black ring stood out against his lips, and silver studs dotted one of his eyebrows. Dark images peeked out of his strained shirt and –

And then he was gone. Walked right past John without ever averting his eyes, leaving the older male a bit stunned at the appearance of the infamous Sherlock Holmes.

John glances down at his watch. Just about on the dot of fifteen hundred hours. Good, the shop will still be open. It’s Thursday, so he has until eighteen hundred hours before the sign is flipped to close.

Honestly, Sherlock Holmes is one of the hardest men to find. John had tried nearly everything to find the younger man – shy of learning his dorm number and knocking on his door. He firmly stated to Mike that doing such a thing would only give greater cause for ridicule by the queer genius.

When John went to search out Sherlock’s classes (Mike had given John a list of Sherlock’s classes – John didn’t want to know where he got it) but the man was always strangely absent. Library, computer lab, detention centre; John searched them all for the elusive freshman. He’d even explored through the morgue – which he had heard was a popular hang out for the bloke.

It took six days of Mike laughing at John’s repeated failure to locate Sherlock before his friend took pity on the blonde and told him where the evasive man worked.

58 Boston Road, Hanwell London.

John had Google’d the address earlier that day – George Bone Tattoos. Sherlock Holmes… works at a tattoo shop.

But if the cab really costs that much to drive down here, John might not be visiting often. If he did, the fifty quid he’d win from Mike wouldn’t be enough to cover all of the cab fares. Why the hell did Sherlock even work in a place so far away from the university? Surely it must cost the bloke a fortune to get to and from work every day.

John’s eyes cast warily on the scarlet sign that identifies the building in front of him as a tattoo shop. Well, a person walking down the street certainly isn't going to miss out on the fact that the building John is standing in front of is a tattoo shop. Practically every third word on the surface of the signs was proclaiming the fact. A white sign reading _"Tattoo Artist"_ , red neon lights in the window saying _"Tattoo"_ , and a black and red sign on the pavement in front.

He steps a bit closer to the sign, his eyes skimming over it, before he swallows hard. _"George Bone Tattoo Artist_ " The website and telephone number are printed on the bottom of the sign in the same crimson paint that the rest of the words are written in. But what makes John's skin crawl is the depiction of a bony hand pointing towards the door of the building.

John straightens his shoulders, and lets his eyes flit back to the door. Standard regulations and information are clearly posted on the door. Tattoo Studio. Body Piercings. Shop is closed on Tuesdays. Of course, John knew that from looking at the store's website. No children. No babies. Persons under the influence of drugs or drink will not be tattooed. Honestly, it all gets a bit repetitive after a while, but he supposes it’s just to cover their own arses. It must not be easy being in the tattooing industry.

John lets out a deep breath. Well, he's not getting a tattoo, so there's nothing he has to worry about. Right?

With another deep breath, John pushes open the door, and he's startled when a shrill scream announces his arrival. He practically jumps as he walks into the darkened room. Despite the soft classical music drifting through the enclosure, his mind instantly drudges up a term from the website, 'macabre themed'. The definition of the word jumps to the forefront of his mind: macabre - disturbing or horrifying because of involvement with or description of death and injury.

Inside, John suddenly feels naked and bare beneath the dark and oppressive decorations. He abruptly realizes just how stupid this whole objective is. This isn't somewhere he ought to be. Not a vanilla boy like himself – someone brought up in a nice, quiet neighborhood where everyone knew everyone, and who got perfect scores on exams and was studying to be a doctor and maybe join the army.

His eyes dart quickly about the antechamber – too caught up in the decorations to bother looking for the reason he's even in the chillingly terrifying shop. The walls are a bright red – blood red. The kind of red that would make your skin crawl if you saw it against an open wound.

The main colour scheme of the setup appears to mainly consist of red, black, and white – with an overabundance of bones everywhere. Somehow, John finds his feet moving – partially against his will – taking him around to examine the various objects in the room.

There's a bat hanging from the ceiling – and John's eyes don't linger long enough to figure out if it's fake or stuffed. There's a sign telling patrons that there's no smoking allowed in the building, and another informing every wandering eye that a customer must be at least eighteen years of age in order to be tattooed. Both notes just happen to be hanging under what appears to be an alter of skulls, bones and unlit candles.

John's eyes narrow in on a cluster of black and red fathers above one of the skulls, held in place by a silver container. He then realizes that the bones are framing a mirror. His own pale face stares back at him, and John quickly moves on, not wanting to reflect on how out of place he looks. Might not have been the brightest idea to wear a sky blue jumper to a store consisting of dark colours.

In the corner of the room there's a shelf of skulls and bones and candles. There's a full skeleton hanging from the wall, and a somber top hat on a stand. Dingy chairs are pressed up against the wall, and John imagines sitting in one of them, waiting nervously as you wait for your name to get called, in order to let a strange man press a needle against your skin and scar it forever – John shivers, and rubs a hand up his arm, more nervous that he would ever dare admit to Mike later.

His eyes catch on a shelf. This shelf is right beside an arch that leads into another room – apparently the room John walked into was simply there for an entrance. Or to scare the weak hearted into leaving. And possibly to host other patrons – had there been anyone else in the store that is. John glances around for a moment – maybe December simply isn't a busy month.

He walks over to the shelf that had caught his eyes. When he's standing in front of it, the blonde realizes that it's not really a shelf. It's a display of folders – a rather ingenious device that allows a person to flip through the pictures stuck there. His fingers gently touch the edge of one of the bindings, his eyes gazing over the artwork shown there. John feels his features settling into surprise. Wow. Unhurriedly, his fingers trace over the images – obviously covered by plastic so the sketches aren't ruined by people sticking their grubby fingers all over them. But these are actually really beautifully done.

He's never really been one to pay attention to tattoos. The thought of needles upon his own skin gave John the shivers – even though he could wield needles upon others without flinching. Call him hypocritical if you want. But either way, John hadn't really cared for tattoos. He hadn't really looked at the tattoos that others got – his eyes only caught by people sporting the marks all over the visible portions of their bodies. But looking at these designs on display... John could almost grasp the concept that people would want such beautiful artwork on display on their bodies.

"Good afternoon. Our colours and equipment are the purest and finest obtainable. Our methods of hygiene are such that we can guarantee our work."

The words sound like something that had been pre-written and rehearsed a thousand times in front of a mirror until committed to memory – but the deep baritone voice startles John, and he spins around, his fingers releasing the folders. He looks through the archway, his eyes catching on the smirking face of Sherlock Holmes. The man is wearing a button up burgundy shirt that matches the rest of the shop – he really looks like he belongs, that’s for sure.

The sleeves of Sherlock’s shirt are rolled up to the elbows, revealing the ink on his forearms as the man leans against the counter he's standing behind. He tilts his head at John, and his fingers – fingers that are surprisingly long and delicate – reach over to a stereo and switch the classical music to a soft rock.

Sherlock's eyes are back on John after he changes the music. "Sorry about that. George doesn't let me play classical music when other people are in the store. He says it ruins the theme." The man chuckles, the sound deep and vibrating across the room, leaving John stuck in his tracks. Well, John certainly hadn't been prepared for this. Of course – what had he been prepared for?

Sherlock cracks his knuckles, and snorts, gesturing one slender finger towards John, silently commanding the blonde to walk over to the counter. John can't help but submit to the authoritative charge, his feet acting beyond John's own control. He strides through the archway – and walks into another subsection of the building that's only brighter than the one he'd previously been occupying by a bit. The only element that makes it brighter is the fact that the walls are painted white instead of red like it’s precedent.

But there are ebony curtains also hanging from the walls in this room, so it keeps the theme flowing. John's eyes shift around, taking in the skeletons hung up, the bones resting on cabinets, and the mirror to his left that shows him just how terribly pallid his face is. John's eyes catch on a pentagram hung up on the wall, and he’s unexpectedly informed by his nose that this section of the building smells distinctively of cigarette smoke. Well, macabre certainly covers it.

"Do you have an appointment?" Sherlock's voice causes John to look back at the man – at the little freshman whose slender fingers are flipping through a thick book full of tabs and sticky notes. "John Watson, I don't see your name penciled in at all." Eyes lift back up to the blonde, and John is started to see the depth of colour in those eyes. Blue, green, gold – they all swirl around in Sherlock's eyes like an enchanting view of the night sky.

"How... how do you know my name?" John asks instead of remarking on his observation, knowing for a fact that he's never been introduced to the boy before. The man in front of him lets out a curt laugh and rolls his eyes, a hand threading through black curls. It's then that John notices that Sherlock has piercings in ears – he has onyx studs in both of his earlobes, a silver bar through the cartilage of his right ear, and three inky rings around the upper part of the cartilage of his left ear. Upon further examination of his face, John recognizes that Sherlock has three lustrous white studs lining his left eyebrow. A black ring stands out against his lips – which are actually painted a dark red. Normally, the thought of a boy wearing makeup would put John off.... but now....

John picks up on the fact that Sherlock's eyes are framed by smoky mascara. It's probably what made his eyes pop out to John earlier – he just hadn't realized it before. And then John grasps the fact that Sherlock has an argent piercing through his right nostril. That's.... god, that's eleven piercings! And just on his face! John halts his thoughts in their tracks before they race off to imagine where else Sherlock might have some surprise metal.

"Don't be idiotic, of course I know who you are." John's thoughts are snapped back to reality when Sherlock speaks. "Captain of the team that makes my life a daily misery? Why wouldn't I know you?"

John winces. As captain of the rugby team, the other players were supposed to listen to him and heed his advice – but a good majority of the team seemed to only take that recommendation when on the field. He knows that a couple of the players harass Sherlock, but he's only made a half-hearted effort to stop them – because he’s normally just too busy to bother protecting a kid he's never met. A kid, who honestly, seems to be perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

"Doesn't matter who you are though. If you don't have an engagement with George, you have to get out. This is an appointment-based only studio." Sherlock runs a hand through his curls again, his brilliant eyes still lingering on John's face – and John gets the sneaking feeling that the younger male is stripping John bare and examining all the secrets written upon his soul. It's a very disconcerting sensation, that's for sure.

John tugs his jumper closer to him, shuffling his feet and letting out an awkward cough in an attempt to make himself feel less exposed. His eyes catch on the mark peeking out of Sherlock's shirt that he'd caught a glimpse of all those weeks ago in the halls. Now, Sherlock's shirt is unbuttoned lower than it had been in school, and John finally knows the picture that is inked into Sherlock's chest. It's a skull.

John licks his lower lip, and he hears a chuckle. "Are you checking me out Mr. Three Continents Watson?"

The doctor in training feels his face flush. Well, Sherlock is a very astute man, that's for sure. But John finds it... a bit refreshing. The man just saying what's on his mind. "I - I was just...admiring your tattoo."

Sherlock glances down at his chest, and a smile creeps onto his face. "Well, I must applaud your taste then, if you like that." His eyes stare back into John's as the younger male tilts his head up. "First tattoo I ever got done." His lips tweak into a smirk. "And if you want to be even more impressed – on men, the chest is one of the areas of the body that is statistically reported to cause the most pain during the tattooing process."

John was impressed long before Sherlock even had to open his mouth. One thing could be said for sure – it wouldn't be any torture to have to kiss the man. Although... John has never kissed anyone with a lip piercing before. He finds himself wondering what the metal will feel like against his lips, or taste like against his tongue – John pursers his lips together and swallows hard, banishing his naughty thoughts so he can right down to the task at hand.

"Maybe you could tell me about the rest of your tattoos?" John asks, a bit of a twist in his shoulders as he leans against the counter, his hip against the hard wood and the length of his arm resting on the counter. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk on his lips. "Now, why would I do such a thing like that?"

Um, well, now, that's actually a good question. Normally when John flirts with girls, he just has to act a little interested and they fall over themselves to speak about whatever comes to mind. With Sherlock though... he's going to have to be a lot cleverer, and perhaps a bit coy – seeing as though that appears to be just the game that the turquoise eyed boy is playing at. "Because you're a genius and you don't get a chance to show off?"

Sherlock chuckles, an amused glint flashing through his eyes. "Well," He bites his lower lip – and god, does that look so seductive, with the pearly white teeth scraping against rouge red lips, and metal glinting from the lights above. "You know," He pauses again, his words deep and sensual as Sherlock looks down at John, his eyes dark and brooding underneath that mascara. Everything in his face is suggestive and his shoulders sway with a drooping motion as he speaks. "I would love to. Except," His voice lifts on the last word, and he stands a bit straighter, his smile growing from seductive to knowing. "I don't want to be the reason that Mike Stamford loses fifty quid."

John feels his jaw drop. Sherlock sits down in a chair behind the desk, propping his feet up on the counter – barely giving John any time to process the uttered words before he's met with the fact that Sherlock Holmes is not only wearing tight as _fuck_ jeans that touch and cling to every line and bulge from the waist down, but that he's wearing pitch-dark, spiked, platform shoes. Sherlock Holmes is a cross dresser.

If John hadn't gotten that from the makeup – he got that from the shoes. And he's surprised to realize just how hot he thinks that is. On most people, the thought of cross-dressing doesn't do anything for John – but on Sherlock, it just works. Works in a way that makes John want to strip the man down to those heels, force him against the counter, and learn the location of every single one of the man's tattoos with his tongue.

John swallows, shaking his head to draw himself out of the fantasy and remember Sherlock's words. "How... how did you...?"

Sherlock lips twist as he snickers, clearly pleased at being able to outwit the blonde. He rolls his shoulders as he leans back into his seat. "How did I know?" His eyes lift to John's with a perceptive sneer on his lips. "You did call me a genius, did you not?" The younger man tilts his head at John. "That's why you're here, isn't it? To kiss me and claim your prize? Well, sorry honey, but I don't do kiss and tell."

Well. If there were ever a time to fabricate some sort of clever lie – now would be the time. But John just seems to have been struck dumb.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "If you're going to just stand there and give the flies a place to settle," He gestures to John's gaping mouth – which John instantly shuts. "I'd really prefer if you get out. It's dull being alone in here, but we _are_ an appointment-based only studio, and if George gets out of his session and finds you standing there like an incompetent simpleton, he's going to get rather cross."

John snaps out of his daze at Sherlock's words. Leaving now would be admitting defeat, and John isn't one to just give up on something he wants. He might have been a bit reluctant when Mike first suggested the idea (because really, who goes around kissing other people for money?) but now the very notion of leaving the studio without having those ruby lips press against his own – it makes John's stomach clench. He's been enticed by Sherlock's attire, and now captivated by his words. Leaving is no longer an option.

"How about you tell me about how getting a tattoo works? That way you won't get in trouble with your boss, and I can still talk with you." John smiles brightly at Sherlock, showing teeth with the flirty glance that he’s applied successfully in dozens of scenarios. If being interested in his work will get Sherlock's attention, then John is prepared to listen to the man talk. Scarcely a hardship to listen to that deep baritone voice.

Sherlock tilts an eyebrow at John, his lips pressing together in a thoughtful expression. Slowly, the sea coloured eyes slide down John's body, lingering in certain areas longer than a healthy glance should last. It sends a shiver down his spine. Then Sherlock's eyes are back on his own. "You're not interested in getting a tattoo, why should I bother telling you? It's all just foreplay to you." The man tilts his head, insightful contortion upon his lips. "You think you can fool me? Talk about my interests to snag my attention? Make me alter my opinion of you?"

The tattooed man rises to his feet, his palms pressed against the counter top as he leans close to John – forcing the man back a step as Sherlock invades his personal space. "You're John Watson. Golden boy of the University. Captain of the rugby team. You go to the university off of a rugby scholarship, which is why you don't quit the team – even though you clash heads with the main arsehole of your team, Dimmock. You want so desperately to gain the approval of your father, so you study to be a doctor. Even though he will never be impressed with anything you do. Not since your mum died, and your sister took after your alcoholic father’s tendencies. Your sister will always be perfect to your father, and even if you were to become the Prime Minister of Britain, your father still wouldn't be impressed. And so you're debating on joining the army as a 'fuck you' to the old man."

Sherlock delays his next works, clearly awaiting some form of reaction. His eyes are hard against the doctor’s as John's breath is stolen from him. Is all that really circulating around the school? Or.... did Sherlock just figure that out? But how could he have?

"You're Three Continents Watson. Nickname given to you after conquering females from America, Japan, and Italy, I believe. Makes you cocky. You're good with women, but your relationships always plummet. Because you're still young, you just brush it off – but there's something wrong with you. Right.... here." Sherlock's finger reaches out to poke John's forehead. "You've experimented with men a few times, just trying to branch out to see if you're missing something. And trust me – you’re about as straight as I am."

Sherlock lets out a huff of breath, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips – and a hot thrill shoots down John's back when he sees the flaming garnet stud standing out against Sherlock's pink tongue. "Mike Stamford bet you fifty quid that you couldn't kiss me, and I hope you've saved up some change, because I am not going to kiss someone who's just interested in proving his name."

The man leans back and sits down in his chair, his fingers flickering over the stereo to switch the rock back to the sounds of a violin that John had heard when he'd first entered the shop. Sherlock waves his hand – clearly dismissing John. The blonde feels his heart dropping – because _ow_. Harsh. Suddenly, he understands how that freshman that had tried to ask Sherlock out had felt. It doesn't help that Sherlock is just so damn bloody _right_ about everything.

John's fingers clench into momentary fists, and he's about to turn and leave – his mind already sorrowfully mourning the loss of the fifty quid he would have to give to Mike – when his eyes catch upon the black ink in Sherlock's forearms. To any normal person, the circles and crescents would have been passed off as a funky hipster design. But John – for however normal and plain that he is – knows where those circles come from. "I'll go," John pauses, his words causing the raven-haired boy to look up at him again. "If you answer me one question."

Sherlock nods his head as if to say 'go on'. John takes a deep breath and plunges into his question like he's walking into an icy shower. "Is that Circular Gallifreyan for 'fuck you'?" His fingers gesture to the tattoo on Sherlock's forearm – drawing the younger male's eyes down with his gesture.

John watches with bated breath as Sherlock's lips slowly lift into a smile. Swirling eyes catch onto John's. "You watch Doctor Who?"

That's the most positive response he could have possibly expected. "You're the genius. If I can read Circular Gallifreyan, do you think I'm a Whovian?"

The look on Sherlock's face is priceless. John can practically see the gears turning in the man's head, and the smile that spreads across his face is an expression that John could find himself getting used to fairly easily.

"So who was your first doctor?" John asks, wanting to draw the man into a conversation that _will_ change Sherlock’s opinion of him. Because even though this might have started as a bet – John is definitely interested in the tattooed man now.

Sherlock licks his lower lip, and John gets a glimpse of tongue piercing again. Hot. "William Hartnell." He finally replies, the smile lingering on his face, and the way he's leaning forward in his chair only proving to John that the younger male is interested in the conversation – at least for as long that John can keep being interesting at least.

John chuckles. "Oh, so you're old school are you? My first doctor was Christopher Eccleston. I haven't had any time to watch the old Who, so you might be a bit disappointed by my lack of knowledge."

Sherlock's lips seem to be pinched up by an invisible force. "You understood my tattoo, so I suppose that would put you in an acceptable region of Who knowledge."

The doctor in training leans back up against the counter, thrilled to have caught Sherlock's attention. Though, it's a bit terrifying. To have those bright and intelligent eyes fixed upon him. "So, why're you into Doctor Who then? I've heard rumors about you. They say you only care about facts. Why would you like a fictional TV show?"

"The concept of time travel." Sherlock answers, his fingers folding together and tenting underneath his chin, disregarding the brief mention of rumors about himself. "It's actually a very viable theory, and could quite possibly be achievable." He pauses, smirking. "But I won't bore you with the scientific details. You might lose interest and decide fifty quid isn't worth your time." Ah, so, that's not forgotten. "Honestly, my brother got me hooked on the series when I was young. It was a favourite show of Mummy's."

That word seems alien coming from Sherlock's mouth – the word of a little boy for his mum. There’s most likely something hidden there. And yet, John is still startled by the fact that Sherlock has a brother. That's something that's never been picked on by a rumor. "You've got a brother?"

"Mhm," Sherlock nods his head, his fingers moving to play with the stud in his ear, his nimble fingers spinning the stud around, and drawing John’s eyes towards the movement with fascination. "If anyone had bothered talking to me instead of relying on the rumors that circulate the University, then you might have known that."

John feels a bit ashamed. "In my defense, you are a rather hard man to track down." Still.... John has only talked to the man for a few minutes, and he already knows more fact about him than any of the rumors have ever brought about. It really makes John recognize just how badly the other students on campus have victimized this man.

Sherlock's lips pluck into the hint of a smile, and he takes out a notebook. John watches as those nimble fingers write out an elegant script upon the paper, before tearing the sheet out, folding it up, and holding it out to John. "Here. To make me easier to track down."

Carefully, John reaches forward and takes the paper from Sherlock. He flips it open, and his eyes flicker over the eleven digits of Sherlock's phone number. John's eyes lift to Sherlock's, and the two of them break into smiles.

 

~

 

Sherlock relented to telling John about his tattoos. He told John about the skull on his chest – and how it was a representative of the skull he had sitting on his bedside table in his dorm. John should have been startled by such a fact – but he wasn't. John already knew about the Circular Gallifreyan tattoo, so Sherlock skipped over that one. He showed John the phrase _'Last One Standing'_ inked on his left forearm, just below the crease of his elbow. It took a moment of urging, but John eventually dragged the story out of Sherlock. The man was a recovering drug addict. He'd been addicted the cocaine, but his brother had sent him to rehab, and he'd gotten that tattoo when he walked free. It helped remind him not to start up again whenever he got the urge.

John was told all about the quote that Sherlock has inked into his side. _"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."_ Sherlock informed John that it had been a quote he'd read in a book from his childhood, and he had always been fond of the quote, applying it to his work. Of course, that sidetracked them for a while as Sherlock launched into the story of how he was studying Criminology at the University so that he could be a better detective. He adamantly stated that he was already a detective – he was just getting the degree to please his mum.

The only reason they got back on track to talking about Sherlock's tattoos is when Sherlock divulged the details of the first case he ever solved to John – a case where a boy named Carl Powers had drowned in a swimming pool. Sherlock revealed to John that he actually has the initials CP inked onto the back of his shoulder, because that had been the first cased he'd ever solved, and he was proud of himself.

When the topic of Sherlock's tattoos was closed – ending on a note where Sherlock informed the blonde that he was working on a sketch for a tattoo on his back, of which he refused to show John – the topic of piercings was broached. Sherlock pointed to the different piercings on his face, informing John of the ages he was when he got the different piercings, and how much each one had hurt.

With a sly grin on his face, Sherlock had informed John that he had two nipple piercings, as well as a piercing in an area that wouldn't be appropriate to show John – and that information sends wild ideas swirling through John's brain, and only manages to make John even more determined to one day know the exact location of that piercing.

John asked why Sherlock worked in a parlor so far away, and Sherlock had just laughed. He had pointed to himself and said, “ _You've met me right?”_

Sherlock had looked for work in other tattoo parlors, but Sherlock was in the process of gaining his tattooing license and no one would take him under their wing besides George.

Of course, John was awfully impressed that Sherlock is a tattoo artist – or, at least, one in training. Sherlock was all over explaining the tattoo process to John – his hands moving about energetically in the air as he spoke – and he was right in the middle of explaining why it was important to pat a tattoo dry instead of rubbing it dry when it's being cleaned, when George himself walked out of the back room with a client. The client left, and John had been forced to vacate the premise since he wasn't getting a tattoo.

But John left with a rather approving look from George, and with a bit more confidence that with time, John might be able to change Sherlock’s opinion of him.

 

 

It's his free period the next day when John is remembering his conversation with Sherlock. Remembering the way that the man smiled, and the passionate way he talked about his tattoos and his investigative work as a detective. John is dying to see the tattoos that had been concealed by Sherlock's shirt yesterday – and he gets the feeling that this is no longer about winning fifty quid from Mike. He is genuinely interested in, if not a very close friendship, then an intimate relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

John runs a hand through his hair, closing the book he's been reading where he sits on an empty bench on the University campus. Sherlock's number is plugged into his phone, and he's only texted the man once – in order to give the dark haired man his own number. The younger male hadn't responded to the text.

He swings his bag around, sliding his book amoung the others and slinging the backpack over his shoulder as he rises to his feet. John really ought to go to the library and see if he can find any books for the research paper he's going to have to start soon. Still absorbed in his thoughts about Sherlock as he walks on autopilot, John doesn't hear the voices until he nearly stumbles upon them.

“Oh, come on, four on one really isn't fair.”

“This isn't supposed to be fair.”

“Oh, you thought I meant for me? How sweet of you. No, it's not fair for you. How about you go rustle up another couple men, and then we'll be even.”

"Why you-!"

The second voice cuts off, and John hears the gasp of someone who's just been slugged in the stomach. His fingers automatically clench into fists when he recognizes the teasing tilt to the baritone voice.

John rounds the corner of the building, his eyes instantly catching on Sherlock Holmes held up by three members of the rugby team as the fourth member punches Sherlock in the stomach.

"How do you like that?" The man slugging Sherlock sneers – Dimmock. He takes a step back, and Sherlock coughs, blood spitting from his ruby painted lips and dotting Dimmock's white shirt. Bright eyes look up at his torturer, but Sherlock just grins in response to the taunt. "I could do this all day."

"Hey!" John shouts, and the rugby players all seem to recognize John's voice – for they all freeze and turn to face John. One of the men sees John, lets go of Sherlock and instantly runs off. Probably wise for him, but John won't forget his face. He'll be making the four of them run extra suicides after practice today.

"Why don't you leave him alone?" John says, striding foreword so he's standing in front of Dimmock. "What on earth could he have possibly done to harm you?"

“Why don’t you just get out of here Cap? Our quarrel isn’t with you.” Dimmock answers, standing tall, legs spread apart in a dominant posture.

John tutts, stepping forward and taking his backpack off, letting it slide down to the ground. “Oh, but you see, it is. Because,” He points to Sherlock – but since he doesn’t actually look at the bloke, he doesn’t notice the incredulous eyes staring up at him. “He’s my friend. So your quarrel is, in fact, with me.”

John’s eyes flash angrily at Dimmock, and he holds up his fists, his feet shifting into a fighting stance. For a moment, the leader of the little group hesitates, and doesn’t appear to want to actually engage in a fight with John.

And then there’s a fist flying at John, and the next second his head is spinning and he tastes blood in his mouth. John lets out a cry and launches himself at Dimmock, getting up close and personal with the distasteful bloke in a manner that isn’t exactly pleasant for either of them.

Eventually, someone’s arms are around John’s waist, trying to yank him away from Dimmock. But John manages to get a good right hook in before he’s tugged away completely, and by the howl that leaves Dimmock’s lips, John knows that his hit is going to make a mark.

Once he’s pulled off Dimmock, the bitter rugby player and his two accomplices dash off, eager to get away from the conflict. But John isn’t going to let them forget about this when practice comes about. Mark his words.

“You idiot.” John hears the baritone voice, and he suddenly registers that long fingers are touching his chin, and pushing his head about as concerned blue eyes flicker over his face. He blinks a few times, and Sherlock’s face comes into focus in front of him.

They’re both on the ground – John sitting down on his arse, his hands braced against the pavement. Sherlock is kneeling over John – almost like a concerned mother hen. The thought makes John chuckle – it’s not really an image that suits the tattooed male.

“Why’d you do that, huh?” Sherlock’s voice again, and the man is tearing a tissue out of his satchel, using it to carefully wipe up the blood that was on the corner of John’s mouth. The doctor tilts his head, looking at the other in confusion. “What’re you talking about? You heard me. You’re my friend now. I’m not just going to let you get beat up.”

Something shifts in Sherlock’s eyes. John isn’t really sure what it is – and he doesn’t have time to think about it either – because the next thing that the doctor knows is that long and cool fingers are framing his face, and soft lips are pressing against his own, and Sherlock’s lip ring is cold and metallic, and oddly sexualized, and he can taste the cherry lipstick that Sherlock has on, and it’s a confusing mess of feminine and male, and it’s just utterly perfect.

And then the lips are gone, and John’s head is probably spinning more from the loss of contact than from the slug he took to the head. In a flash his eyes flick down to Sherlock’s lips, already dying to taste them again – a sort of victory swelling up in his chest when he sees the younger male’s smeared lipstick and sparkling eyes.

“So,” John starts, a grin spreading wide across his face, even as he’s already mentally making a plan that’ll give him an excuse to feel that tongue ring against his lips. “Did I alter your opinion of me?”

Sherlock chuckles, a smirk turning the corners of his lips up. “You owe me fifty quid John Watson.”

**Author's Note:**

> *Update* I have finally posted the sequel to this! It's called 'Tattoo Me' and I hope you guys enjoy it! Sorry for making you wait so long! ~X


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